


If You Ever Come Back

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Drug Use, Drunkenness, I'm Sorry, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-12
Updated: 2014-04-12
Packaged: 2018-01-19 01:49:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 823
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1450909
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Are you okay, Sherlock?"<br/>"Yes. Fine."<br/>"It's just... You left early."<br/>"Yes, I know. I had finished," did his voice crack or was he just imaging it, "My song for you and Mary, I had no other need to be there so I departed."<br/>"Oh, okay. Well just making sure you're alright."<br/>"Hmmm"<br/>"Well I better get on the plane we're goin-"<br/>"Going to Caribbean for the honeymoon, yes I know I helped plan the trip for you."<br/>"Right.... Well, ummm, goodbye Sherlock. We'll be back in a week."<br/>Sherlock tried to form the G in goodbye but his throat started seizing up. He hung up without it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	If You Ever Come Back

**Author's Note:**

> I'm very sorry for what is about to happen.

The burn in his throat grew stronger, the string demanded more of Sherlock’s attention as the smell made his nose hairs curl up like a snail to salt. Mrs.Hudson had came home and given him some left overs from her date, the first thing in about a week to past his lips that wasn’t liquor from a bottle.

His breath could knock someone out.

He hadn't had a case in weeks.

He looked like a malnourished stray.

In the weeks after the wedding he'd only talked to John once.

It was after the wedding, He checking that Sherlock was okay. Sherlock had been laying in his bed waiting for the feeling in his chest to go away. There was no logical, scientific reason for the empty feeling in his chest, like someone had cut it out or shot through it. His throat burned and eyes strung, when had he started crying? The phoned had beeped, a text from John asking if he was okay. Sherlock ignored both the text and the tumor in his hands as he picked up and put down the phone. Hours afterwards John finally called, Sherlock pulled his voice together long enough to answer.

"Are you okay, Sherlock?"

"Yes. Fine."

"It's just... You left early."

"Yes, I know. I had finished," did his voice crack or was he just imaging it, "My song for you and Mary, I had no other need to be there so I departed."

"Oh, okay. Well just making sure you're alright."

"Hmmm"

"Well I better get on the plane we're goin-"

"Going to Caribbean for the honeymoon, yes I know I helped plan the trip for you."

"Right.... Well, ummm, goodbye Sherlock. We'll be back in a week."

Sherlock tried to form the G in goodbye but his throat started seizing up. He hung up without it.

 

* * *

 

 

He sat on the living room floor, feet spread out in front of him without his pants on like a middle aged drunk.

Oh wait

He was a middle aged drunk.

He looked at his phone, he felt the sting in his eyes come back but he willed it away. No. No he was not going to cry. No, he'd cried more than enough in his last month or so alone in 221b than his whole life. He pulled a drunk hand to his eyes.

God, it was Redbeard all over.

"Oh Sherlock," Mrs. Hudson's voice rang out over the silent flat, "Sherlock, have you been drinkin' again?" She came over and tapped on his shoulder, an indicator that he needs to stand, "Oh Hudders," He said as he tried to find his feet. When had the world tilted?

"Huddy Hud Hudders, you treat me right," the landlady helped him to his feet, slung her tiny arm around his waist, and help him to the room, "You've been crying again haven't you dearie? It's about him isn't it?" She set him down on his bed, "You can get through this, Sherlock. You always do, sweetheart."

 

* * *

 

 

He'd slept some. It was now completely dark out, save the never ending glow of London, and he'd sobered up enough to get out of his bed and trip, hobble, skip and hop his way to the living room where the bottle of liquor still waited for his lips to wrap around the neck.

He drank some more.

He drank until the bottle ran out and he tipped his head back to let the last few drops slide down his throat.

His vision was blurring, tripping around mixing colours and spreading objects to be fat or skimming them down to thin sticks.

He felt the warmth in his chest blossom out with the liquor going down. He pulled his knees to his chest, an unwanted tear escaping and cutting through the grime on his face. When was the last time he showered? He let more tears stream down. The images of John, perfect John, sweet John, enjoying domestic life that he would have gotten years before had Sherlock not distracted him.

Would it be different had Sherlock not come back? He blinked hard with an arsenal of tears departing with it. Was he selfish to come back after he took down the network? He could have stayed away that night at the restaurant, could have stayed close by the man with the hideous upper lip caterpillar to see _if_ he'd fit back into the swing of things and _when_ he would do so.

Yes, truly selfish it was of him to come back.

 

* * *

 

He was on a case.

That's what he kept telling himself.

' _I'm on a case_ '

As he tied the scarf he loves so much around his forearm

' _On a case_ '

As he flicked the needle to remove unneeded amount from the steel

' _A case_ '

As he pushed the sunshine syringe into his crooked vein

' _Case_ '

As he pushes the juices into him, feeling life pour back into him.


End file.
